Evanly Bodies (9 page)

Pritchard jumped up from where he was squatting at the bottom drawer of the desk. "Yes sir?"

"Leave that and start looking for another weapon," he said. "We know that none of those antique pistols has been fired recently.
So the real weapon has to have been hidden or disposed of."

"Maybe Mrs. Rogers dropped it into the shrubbery on her dog walk," Pritchard suggested, "Or threw it into the Menai Strait."

"Both possible. Evans, call HQ and have a team of men sent out to search. We may also need frogmen."

"Shouldn't we wait for the ballistics report?" Evan said cautiously. "It would make more sense if the men knew what they were
looking for."

"I suppose so," Bragg reluctantly agreed. "Let's have the WPC take Mrs. Rogers out for a walk or a cup of coffee, and then
we'll give this whole place a proper going over. Maybe she's stashed it under our noses."

But a thorough search of the house failed to turn up the weapon. Evan felt most uncomfortable rummaging through neat drawers
of underwear and nightclothes. On Missy's bedside table there was a faded photograph of a couple taken in wartime, the man
handsome in his army uniform, the woman looking coy in one of those 1940s suits with the big shoulders. Beside it another
photo of the same couple, their faces now wrinkled but still handsome. Beside it a photograph of Missy, her arm around another
woman in what looked like the south of France. Her parents and sister, Evan surmised. They were the only photographs in the
house.

His search was interrupted by the arrival of DS Wingate. He had retraced the route of the dog walk and had spoken to the old
man Missy had mentioned, the one with the little white dog of whom Lucky was so fond. The old man remembered seeing Mrs. Rogers
go past at her usual time the previous morning, but she had seemed more hurried and preoccupied. She'd just given him a perfunctory
"Good morning" and dragged Lucky past without giving the dogs time to greet each other in their usual way.

"She was stressed," Bragg said delightedly. "What did I tell you? She was in a hurry to get back on schedule after she'd taken
the time to shoot her husband and then put the lawn mower away."

"Did anyone else see her?" Evan asked.

"The woman at the corner shop was just putting out the trays of apples and saw her walk by, but that was about it. At least
we know she stuck to the route she had described to us."

"Right, lads, back to searching for that weapon," Bragg said. "Given the amount of time she'd have needed to complete that
walk, she wouldn't have had much chance to hide a weapon before she called us."

"Unless she'd dropped it in the bushes along the way," Evan reminded him.

He didn't look pleased to be reminded. "Right. Yes. We know that," he said.

But another hour's searching revealed nothing. Mrs. Rogers had returned from her outing with the policewoman and was now out
in her garden, pulling the dead heads off chrysanthemums while the policewoman threw a ball for Lucky. It was a peaceful,
everyday scene. Someone had lit a bonfire in a neighboring back garden, and the pleasant smell of burning wood and leaves
floated toward them as they piled back into their vehicles.

"I get the feeling she's a smart cookie, and she thinks we're rather slow and stupid," Bragg said. "She probably thinks it's
really easy to outwit us."

"Well, she has, so far," Wingate said. "We've got nothing on her that would stand up in court."

"We'll get it," Bragg said. "I have a good feeling about this one."

As soon as they arrived back at headquarters in Colwyn Bay, they went first to the forensics lab.

"I was just about to call you lot," they were greeted by Owen Jones, one of the members of yesterday's team. "I think we've
wrapped up all the preliminary findings on your crime scene yesterday."

"And?" Bragg demanded.

"What do you want first? Ballistics report?"

"Fire away," Bragg said. Pritchard smirked. Evan couldn't decide whether Bragg was intending to be witty or not.

"Right." Jones picked up a piece of paper from the table beside him. "Interesting size bullet-eight millimeter. You don't
come across that often in modern weapons. Nine is more common. Our ballistics chap suggests it might have come from a Nambu
Type 14, a Japanese handgun used by their officers in World War II. I take it nobody's been able to come up with the casing
yet? That would confirm it."

"No casing," Bragg said. "We've given the house and grounds a pretty thorough search, and we've come up with nothing."

"There was a photo of a bloke in a WWII uniform on the bedside table," Pritchard said. "Her dad, do you think? Left her the
weapon?"

"I bet he did," Bragg said excitedly. "Tell me, do you think it was a weapon that a woman could have fired easily?"

"Absolutely,' the technician said. "If it's a Nambu, it's a light little thing. In fact it was always a source of amusement
that Japanese officers were issued something so flimsy. Most of them chose to carry swords instead, so I understand. More
chance of killing somebody with those."

"And yet it seems to have done an efficient job this time," Bragg said.

"Five feet away-you can't very well miss, can you?"

"True. So what else have you got for us, Jones?"

"Fingerprints-no obvious fingerprints that we can't identify. Especially significant from your point of view, the only prints
on the lawn mower were Mrs. Rogers's and the gardener's. Mrs. Rogers's were the clearest. And on the window latch, only Mrs.
Rogers's fingerprints show up, apart from a few indistinct ones."

"And if the killer had worn gloves?" Bragg asked.

"If he'd worn gloves, he'd likely have smudged the nice clear set of prints we got. As it was, we didn't see any evidence
of smudging or attempts to wipe anything clean."

"If Mrs. Rogers really is the killer, surely she'd have thought of that," Evan blurted out. "The first thing she'd have done
is to wipe away her fingerprints."

Bragg smirked. "As I've said before, it's lucky for us that most perpetrators aren't too bright. And they're in panic mode.
They don't always stop to think." He clapped his hands together. "Right, lads. I think we're finally getting somewhere. Let's
have the uniform boys bring her in."

"Are you charging her, sir?" Wingate asked. "Isn't that a little premature?"

"I'm not charging her officially, Wingate. As of now she's helping us with our inquiries. However, I think we're going to
be too busy to get to her before tomorrow morning. Let's just see whether a night in a cell will make her more willing to
tell us what she knows."

Earlier in his career Evan would have parked the car and gone for a brisk walk up the hill to savor the sunset. Now he felt
burdened with too much on his mind. He was still uncomfortable with Inspector Bragg's decision to bring in Mrs. Rogers. The
thought of that genteel woman spending a night in jail was repugnant to him. He admired her quiet dignity, and he wanted to
believe in her innocence. He knew from past experience that a few obvious clues do not necessarily a murderer make. And yet
he had to agree with Bragg that she did now seem the likely suspect. Would anyone else have thought of coming back into the
house to close the window? Would anyone else have put away the lawn mower? He had to admit he was rather glad he wasn't in
charge of the case.

He parked his car and climbed up the track just as the last rays of sun vanished, leaving the valley in deep gloom. Ahead
of him the slopes of the Glydrs still glowed brightly, and the windows in his own little cottage winked back the sun's dying
rays. He quickened his pace and took the last part of the hill at a run.

"Bron?" he called, flinging open the door. "Bron, do you feel like coming for a walk before it's quite dark? Have you seen
the sky out there? It's a lovely evening."

Bronwen came out of the bedroom, brushing the wisps of fair hair back from her face.

"Oh hello, Evan," she said. "Sorry, I haven't started supper yet."

He took a long look at her. "What's wrong?" he asked. She'd clearly been crying.

"I've just had a really horrible experience," she said.

She buried her head against his shoulder. "I went to see the Khans, like I promised," she said. "I thought we could talk like
reasonable people. I was doing okay with the parents at first. I told them that Jamila was a bright girl and had a good future
ahead of her, and if they loved her they should think what was best for her. And her best future was obviously here. Then
the brother arrived, and he went ballistic on me. He screamed that it was all my fault that his sister had turned into a loose
slut with no morals. He accused me of turning her against her family and her religion. She'd never have dared to answer her
father back before she met me, he said. He got right in my face, and he said if I ever dared to speak to her again, I'd be
sorry."

"Oh, he did, did he?" Evan started to move toward the door.

Bronwen grabbed at his sleeve. "No, Evan. Don't go down there. It wouldn't do any good."

"I'm not having anyone threatening my wife," Evan muttered.

"But more fighting won't solve anything. I just feel like such a failure." She let out a big sigh. "I guess I'm not the wise
schoolteacher I thought I was. I really thought I was going to be the voice of reason, and they'd listen to me. But the moment
Rashid came on the scene, the two older ones sided with him. Even the father told me I was interfering in private, family
business and would I please leave his house immediately. Then I suppose I lost it too. I told them that my husband was a policeman;
and if they tried to take Jamila out of the country, they'd find that British law wouldn't allow them to behave in that barbaric
way."

"Not the wisest thing to say," Evan said. "There's nothing we could do to stop them from taking their daughter where they
like. You know that."

"I suppose so." Bronwen nestled her head against him again. "I just felt so angry and hopeless. Now I'm afraid I'll have scared
them into taking some sort of action sooner than they'd intended to."

"You might be right," Evan said.

She pushed him away from her. "Stop sounding so damn smug and reasonable!" she shouted. "I suppose you'd have handled it perfectly!
You were just about to go down there and beat up Rashid."

Evan had to smile. He pulled her close again and stroked her cheek. "I'm sure I'd have done no better than you, sweetheart.
You're not going to change a mind-set that has been formed through the culture of generations."

"So what can we do now, Evan?" Bronwen demanded. "We can't just let them take her to Pakistan and marry her off to some old
man."

"I suppose you could speak to someone at her school," Evan said. "They may have the power to intervene, although, I warn you,
Jamila may not thank you for it if she's forcibly taken away from her family. And I suspect that this is such a delicate cultural
issue that the school will stay well clear."

Bronwen paced the room. "I feel so angry and so powerless," she said.

"There is something you might do," Evan said. "Talk to Jamila herself and ask her what she wants. Would she really rather
be put in foster care?"

"I don't think that's going to happen easily," Bronwen said. "From now on her brother is going to be driving her to school
and back, so that she doesn't have a chance to meet with us corrupt non-Muslims." Her face brightened as she came up with
an idea. "I know. Perhaps we could tell everybody to boycott the shop until they promise to keep Jamila here with them."

Evan shook his head, smiling. "You really are riled up tonight," he said. "I've never seen you like this before. What good
do you think that would do? They'd up and move away, and then you wouldn't even know what happened to Jamila." He took her
face in his hands. "What you don't seem to realize is that you can't force these people, Bronwen. They're proud of their culture.
Any attack on their way of life and they are going to resist you, however sane and logical you think you are being."

"I suppose you're right."

"Jamila's a bright girl and she's made some friends. She may well figure this one out for herself," Evan said. "In fact there's
only one thing to do now."

"What?" she looked up hopefully.

"I'll open a bottle of wine, and you start cooking the dinner."

At that she laughed. "That does seem the only sensible thing to do. Did you have a horrible day as well?"

"It wasn't bad," Evan said, "but we wound up arresting Professor Rogers's widow."

"The wife did it?"

"My boss seems to think so."

"But you don't?"

Evan shrugged. "I don't know. All the physical evidence does seem to point in her direction, but she's such a restrained,
dignified woman, Bron. One of the old school, brought up to keep all her emotions in check and always to do the right thing.
I just can't picture her shooting somebody."

"I'm sure you'll find out the truth, Evan. You always do," Bron-wen said.

"I hope so. It's not as if he's going to let me say a word when he interviews her, and his interviewing style is such that
anyone would clam up."

"Then you're going to have to do a little extra sleuthing on your own."

"Go behind my inspector's back?"

She laughed. "When has that ever stopped you before?"

"Well, this is really nice," she said, giving him a sleepy smile. "Breakfast in bed and a nice day ahead."

"Not for me, love, I'm afraid." Evan bent to kiss her. "I've got to go to work. Don't look at me like that. I know it's Saturday,
but we don't get days off when we're on a case. We keep going as long as it takes. You know that."

Bronwen sighed. "Yes, I suppose I did know that. You drummed it into me before we got married. You told me being a policeman's
wife wasn't easy."

"I gave you enough chances to back out." He ruffled her hair.

"I should have listened. Now I'm stuck with you, I suppose."

"Unless you want to divorce me and live the high life onmy assets."

"Half this cottage, you mean?" she laughed. "I can't decide which is the better half."

"I have to go." Evan turned to the door. "We're interviewing Professor Rogers's widow at nine. When I say we, I mean Bragg,
of course. I'll be in the back, taking notes."

Bronwen sat up. "Don't let that man walk all over you, Evan. Sometimes you're too nice. He should be damned grateful to have
you on his team. And if you don't tell him, I'll come down and do it myself."

"Bronwen the belligerent," Evan said. "You used to be such a tranquil little thing."

"It's all the good sex," Bronwen said dryly. "It's got me fired up."

Evan laughed as he let himself out of the front door.

Mrs. Rogers looked as if she had come to a meeting with her bank manager when she was ushered into the interview room the
next morning. Her hair was in neat waves, she wore a touch of makeup, and she looked smart in her gray wool dress. Yesterday
there had been some kind of pearl broach on the dress; Evan remembered. Sharp objects had obviously been removed before she
was put in a holding cell.

"Please sit down, Mrs. Rogers." DI Bragg motioned to a chair with unexpected civility. He leaned across and pressed the record
button on a tape recorder. "Saturday October third. Nine thirty a.m. Detective Inspector Bragg interviewing Mrs. Madeleine
Jane Rogers. Also present in the room: Detective Sergeant Wingate, Detective Constables Evans and Pritchard. Sorry about that,
Mrs. Rogers. Just a little formality to make sure this is all conducted by the book." He smiled at her. Evan had to admit
he was being unnaturally charming.

"I must apologize for keeping you here overnight. I trust it wasn't too unpleasant."

"Thank you, but everyone was very kind," she said. "I was treated well, and the breakfast was quite edible. In fact it was
rather nice to have my breakfast brought to me on a tray for once." There was a hint of a twinkle in her eyes.

"You do understand that we couldn't arrange this meeting until this morning," Bragg said.

"I understand perfectly, Inspector. I wasn't born yesterday. You thought a night in jail might frighten me into a confession.
However, I'm afraid I have nothing to confess."

"You have the right to having a lawyer present, you know. That has been made clear to you?" Bragg said.

Her eyes challenged him. "Does that mean that I've been charged with this murder?"

"No. Not yet."

"Then don't you have to charge me or release me? You can't keep me here indefinitely, can you?"

Bragg leaned forward in his seat. "Mrs. Rogers, there's nothing I'd like better than to let you go. You give us some proof
that you did not kill your husband, and you can leave anytime you want to."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Inspector," she said calmly. "I have no proof at all, no alibi really, except for anyone who
may have spotted me on my dog walk. My only proof is logic-why would I want to kill Martin? What could I possible gain from
it? I have no close family anymore, apart from a sister I rarely see. My life was Martin. We did everything as a couple. By
taking him away, I've had my whole life taken away from me."

Bragg continued to lean forward. "Mrs. Rogers, am I right in thinking that your father was in the war?"

"Yes, he was."

"And he served on what front?"

"The war in Asia. He was in Burma and captured by the Japanese. He was lucky to escape with his life. Most of his friends
died building the Burma railway."

"And he brought back a Japanese officer's pistol as a souvenir?"

"I believe he did."

"And you own that pistol now?"

"Certainly not. I have no interest in weapons. I didn't even like those gruesome things that Martin collected."

"Your husband didn't have a Japanese pistol in his collection then?"

She smiled at this. "My husband's specialty was eighteenth-century Europe. A Japanese pistol would have been little use in
his lectures."